The Bitter Seed of Magic

me up, so I was going to need help: someone she wouldn’t ignore. And that someone was sitting right next to me.

I rested my cheek on my knees so I could look at Finn. ‘The faeling’s death is to do with the curse,’ I said quietly.

His hand on my shoulders stilled. ‘How do you know?’

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out—not because I didn’t want to tell him, not because he wouldn’t believe me, but because The Mother’s commands obviously came with a gag clause, one that currently had invisible hands around my throat doing their best to strangle me. Why the hell would she do that? Unless … she didn’t want me inadvertently tipping off the murderer.

‘Sorry,’ I finally gasped, ‘can’t tell you!’

‘“Can’t”, or “won’t”?’ Finn was good. He caught on quick.

I reached out, squeezed his knee and shook my head.

A thoughtful frown lined his forehead and I studied him as the invisible hands relaxed their hold on my throat. He was worth studying. With his strong, clean-cut human features, his short bracken-coloured horns standing about an inch above his dark blond wavy hair, his broad shoulders and honed muscular body, he looked like every human’s wet dream of a sex god—if their idea of a sex god was dressed in a dark chocolate-coloured business suit, with a cream shirt open enough at the neck to offer a tantalising glimpse of luscious tanned skin sprinkled with sleek sable hair, that is. But the handsome-human look was just that: a look, or rather a Glamour—not a spelled glamour, like the one on the dead faeling, but a true Glamour, made from his own will and self-perception.

Finn’s fae self is wilder, more feral, more gorgeous …

At the thought, magic bloomed inside me and lust and longing spread a rising heat through my body, catching me by surprise. A faint sheen of gold rippled over my fingers where they still rested on Finn’s knee as the magic reached out to him and I snatched my hand back in horror before he noticed. This so couldn’t be happening—not now, not after the magic had been quiet for so long. Crap. The last thing I needed was for it to join in and play matchmaker. I screwed my eyes shut, determined to push the feelings away.

It felt like trying to push back an incoming tide.

Trouble was, the magic liked Finn; it always had done. Of course, it didn’t help that he didn’t just look like a sex god; he was one, or at least descended from one, since his long-ago satyr ancestors were worshipped as fertility deities—until the archetypal horned god image was relegated to the dark side and characterised as all that was evil.

Oh, and renamed Satan.

Damn it! If The Mother thought I was going to suspect Finn, the ultimate white knight and all-round good guy, of having anything to do with the faelings’ deaths, then She was nuttier than Angel.

But there was more than one satyr in London, and Finn’s herd, like the rest of London’s fae, were desperate to hear the pitter-patter of tiny hooves—so desperate that nine months ago they’d shelled out big-time for the Spellcrackers.com London franchise, and made Finn the boss—my boss—as a pre-emptive nuptial gift, to give us time to get to know each other (and making Finn their number one prospective curse-cracking daddy in the process). I didn’t know how much money was involved, but I knew they were up to their eyes in hock to the Witches’ Council. That amounted to a lot of desperation.

I opened my eyes. ‘Finn, what’s the head count of the herd?’

‘Ninety-three.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Why?’

Too many suspects. I needed some way to whittle them down. ‘Just wondering.’

‘Wondering what?’

The invisible hands grabbed my throat. I shook my head again.

He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Okay, then.’ He slid his phone open with a quiet click. ‘Then if you can’t tell me, maybe you can tell Helen.’

Stupid irrational jealousy spiked as he said her name. I wanted him to call her: it was the right thing to do, to tell the DI in charge about a clue that could help solve the faelings’ deaths, and maybe prevent more. That was a solution I wanted more than she did, going by her recent stonewalling. The fact that Helen was still Finn’s number one speed-dial, despite being his ex for however many years, and that she never seemed far from his mind despite him saying it was over between them? Well, actions speak louder …

He snapped his phone shut. ‘Helen wants us to meet her at Old Scotland Yard’—the Met’s Murder and Magic squad HQ—‘and she needs you to give a statement about today.’ He gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Do you think you’re able to get up yet, Gen?’

‘Sodding hell, satyr, stop mollycoddling the bloody sidhe.’ The loud, sneering words snapped my head up. ‘She’s got to be taken care of, and if you’re not up to it, then I am.’

Damn. I’d forgotten about the dryad.

Chapter Seven

I glared past Finn’s broad shoulders at the tall, thickset dryad. His arms were crossed, and he was smiling down at me with too many bark-stained teeth showing in his mahogany-coloured face for it to be anything but menacing. To be honest, he could’ve been sitting on the floor crying into the purple bandana wrapped round his clipped scalp and I’d have still felt threatened. Five months ago Bandana and his vicious little dryad gang had tried to kidnap and rape me. He’d used the fertility curse as his extenuating circumstances.

I stifled a shudder, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ I demanded.

‘He was here first, Gen.’ Finn shot him a scathing look. ‘Apparently he walked in and pulled you out of the circle as it imploded.’

Bandana grinned wider. ‘You should thank me, sidhe. You tried to swallow too much magic and it was ripping you apart. If it hadn’t been for my hold on you, you would have faded.’ His long ankle- length brown coat split into a cape of thin whip-like willow branches that shifted in the spring breeze. I suppressed another shudder as the sensory memory of his branches tightening around my arms and legs surfaced. My stomach roiled. I pushed Finn away and hunched over, vomiting up a stream of brackish-tasting liquid.

‘Oh, and I poured salted river-water down your throat while you were out of it.’ I heard Bandana say happily through the noise of my own retching. ‘Didn’t want the magic to have any nasty lingering after-effects.’

Sadistic bastard.

‘You’re the only nasty lingering after-effect round here,’ I spat out when I could, wishing, not for the first time, that I’d blasted the whole of Bandana into wood shavings when he’d tried to kidnap me, instead of just his appendages.

Finn held out a bottle of water. He’d just called it, so it was ice-cold from the fridge. I thanked him, rinsed my mouth and gave it him back—and it disappeared. Clasping his offered hand, I hauled myself up and stood swaying as another bout of dizziness hit.

I shrugged on my jacket, glad of its warmth against the chill breeze, and held on to Finn as I willed the light-headedness away. The Thames rushed past behind us, its waters slapping loudly against the concrete dock, almost blotting out the background buzz of tourists and traffic. A raucous caw drew my attention up to Tower Bridge above us. A large raven perched on one of the parapets, head cocked to one side, watching. Was the bird something to do with the dead faeling? There were ravens at the nearby Tower of London—

The bird dived down and past us and my gaze caught on the high railings fencing off the dock from the public, behind which a snap-happy contingent of paparazzi were clustered, their cameras flashing like a mini electric storm. I froze in panic until I realised the cameras weren’t pointed at our little group but at the half-dozen uniforms— Constable Martin among them—gathered by the police cruiser tied up at the dock.

‘The dryad cast an Unseen spell,’ Finn muttered, squeezing my hand